


Yes, Professor

by Absolutely_Corrupted



Series: SIs in Harry Potter [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Dumbledore's Army, Gen, Platonic Relationships, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2019-10-04 09:11:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17301869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Absolutely_Corrupted/pseuds/Absolutely_Corrupted
Summary: A self-insert decides her previous plan wasn’t good enough – she takes more decisive action.





	1. Chapter 1

 

**August 31 st, 1995 **

It’s a dreary Thursday morning in Hogsmeade when Trixie arrives for her interview. She’d chosen to apparate, rather than floo, so she materializes on the empty stretch of road on the outskirts of the small village. She stands there, for just a moment, wondering if she should turn back. If she misses the interview, events will progress as they should.

The moment passes.

Trixie walks quickly and with purpose. Now that her last chance to back out is gone, she finds herself surprisingly calm.

She pulls hard against the door to the Three Broomsticks, fighting against an unusually strong wind as well as the actual weight of the door. There’s a moment when it refuses to give – caught between two equally opposing forces – but then the wind relents and the hinges squeal as the door swings open fully.

“Ms. Locke – it’s good to see you.”

“Professor Dumbledore,” the words pass her lips before she can decide whether or not there’s a better way to address her former headmaster. She pushes on, “It’s good to see you too – I hope you had a pleasant summer?”

“I did,” he says amicably. “It’s important to find happiness where one may, in times like these.”

“Of course,” Trixie agrees, masterfully restraining a wince. Cedric Diggory’s death is largely the reason why she’s here. “We can only hope to be prepared, when Voldemort finally decides to strike.”

Two white eyebrows rise over half-moon spectacles. “I take it you don’t believe I’m – how did Ms. Skeeter put it? – a ‘senile old fool?’”

“Obviously not, sir.” Trixie grins at him weakly. The smear campaign is much worse than she’d expected it to be. She probably shouldn’t be surprised; a lot of things are worse in real life than they were in the books. “I may not have seen it with my own eyes, but with a student dead, I’m inclined to err on the side of caution.” She shrugs a little, before adding, “Call me superstitious, but there was no body the first time around, so it’s not impossible that he survived.”

“Indeed.” Dumbledore looks down at her in interest for a moment before dismissing whatever thought he was about share. “But let’s leave such talk for later. We have an interview to get through.”

“Right.” She follows the older wizard back to his table. Once they’re both seated, Madam Rosmerta appears briefly to offer tea. Trixie accepts and, once she’s taken her first sip, Dumbledore steeples his fingers and asks his first question.

“Why did you apply, Ms. Locke? I know it’s not due to a lack of other opportunities.”

She sets her tea down and briefly glances up into the other man’s eyes. As an occlumens, she has no need to worry about him plucking secrets from her head. Not that she thinks he would. “I suppose the reason I’m here is to prepare the students,” she says. “I kept seeing the ad in the prophet – the one for the defense position – and well...” She thinks of Diggory, of the life she’s already failed to save. “After what happened, it’s hard to deny the importance of learning how to counter dark magic – especially for our youth. It’s not as though dark creatures or wizards will leave you alone simply because you haven’t reached your majority. It seemed like I should step forward, if no one else would.

“I know I’m not terribly qualified,” she adds with a nervous shrug. “But I did well on my exams and I _was_ an auror, up until recently.”

“Ah yes, I thought I’d heard something about that.” Dumbledore absently strokes his long white beard. “Why not continue with that? As an auror you were doing as much, if not more to protect our youth.”

“I suppose so,” Trixie concedes. “But I’ve always wanted to teach.” It’s the truth, even if that goal hadn’t always included magic. “When no one else applied, I couldn’t help but wonder – daydream, really – what it would be like to take the position myself. I’ve always planned on applying, though not necessarily for Defense, so I thought this was my chance to get my foot in the door.”

Dumbledore tilts his head in interest. “Oh?”

“I actually wanted to apply for either Potions or History of Magic,” she admits. “I received my NEWTs in both subjects and quite liked tutoring in them while I was still in school.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind one ear. “I was going to either wait for Severus Snape to switch to Defense – as he mentioned wanting to do so when I was a seventh year – or I was going to apply for History of Magic after my first successful publication. Whichever came first.”

“You write?”

“Yes. While I’ve never had a talent for fiction, I have something of a knack for historical non-fiction. I thought that publishing a book on Voldemort’s rise to power would be an excellent thing to have under my belt when the time came to apply.”

“Yet, here you are, applying for another position – one many believe to be cursed.”

Trixie nods, trying not to let the threat of the curse unnerve her. “Yes, but I know it’s possible to survive the curse relatively unscathed. It’s only in the past four years that events have turned somewhat dire. I’m hoping that, so long as I plan to leave the post after a single year, the worst of the curse will pass me by.”

The aging headmaster inclines his head in acknowledgement. “It has been known to work in the past. Though I will warn you to be on your guard, when June rolls around.”

“Of course,” she agrees. “I’d be foolish not to.”

“Well, I can see you’re quite serious about this. Let’s move onto the particulars of the job.”

.

.

.

Trixie spends most of September 1st moving into her newly assigned quarters. Her clothes and shoes are neatly tucked away and her toiletries are lined up around her magnificently large bath. She keeps all her other odds and ends in their boxes, not yet sure where she wants them to go.

That accomplished, she washes up in her new bath. She spends perhaps a little too long luxuriating, considering she steps out just as a house elf pops in to remind her to be down in time for the feast. Dismissing the elf politely, she uses her remaining time to change quickly into a deep plum colored dress with a black over-robe. She would have worn her new green gown, but she figures it’s best not to show loyalties to her former house, in times like these.

The other teachers, once she makes it to the Great Hall to join them, are understandably surprised to see her. “Why, I thought for sure the Ministry would assign one of theirs,” says Pomona Sprout. “After all that fuss with the new decree…”

“Yes, well, I was a rather last-minute hire,” Trixie says. “I’m sure they had no idea someone would apply so late in the game.”

“Well, I for one am glad to have you back, Ms. Locke. You were a pleasure to teach and I’m sure you’ll be a pleasure to learn from as well.”

Trixie is unusually touched by the kind words. “Thank you, Professor Sprout.”

“Please, call me Pomona – I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of one another this upcoming year.”

“Then you can call me Beatrix.”

The two witches smile and exchange well-wishes for the upcoming year, before Sprout is distracted by Charity Burbage and Trixie is called over by the deputy headmistress.

“Beatrix Locke,” she says. “I can’t say I expected this. Weren’t you well on your way to becoming an auror last time I saw you?”

“I was. I did, rather,” the younger witch admits. “But I turned in my notice just a few weeks ago.” McGonagall opens her mouth to no doubt ask why so she goes on, “I’ve always wanted to teach – and I heard the position was going to be assigned by the Ministry, if no one applied. It seemed that if there were ever a time to put my name forward, it was now.”

Minerva McGonagall tilts her head in a distinctly catlike manner. “I never would have guessed,” she says honestly. “But you were a talented student, so if you’re even half as talented at teaching you’ll do quite well.” She hesitates, then asks, “Have you made any plans towards circumventing the curse?”

“I have a few things in mind,” Trixie says cryptically, having zero intention of letting the other witch in on her plans. She has to keep a lot private, considering there is no logical way for her to have the knowledge she has. It’s a little lonely, keeping such important truths to herself, but none of the alternatives are acceptable. She’d either be lauded as some sort of seer or locked away in St. Mungos to rot.

A chime catches everyone’s attention.

“That’ll be the train.” She hadn’t seen Dumbledore enter the hall, but suddenly he’s there – resplendent in deep purple robes with twinkling stars and a matching pointy hat. Behind him, having just entered from the room behind the head table, is Severus Snape.

He looks slightly more murderous than usual, glaring daggers at Dumbledore’s star-strewn back.

“Minerva, as usual I’ll leave the first years in your capable hands. Professor Grubbly-Plank should be loading them into the boats now.”

“Of course, Albus.” McGonagall takes off for the doors at the end of hall.

She’s only just out of earshot when Dumbledore turns to smile benevolently at the rest of them. “As some of you may have noticed, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher will be Beatrix Locke – a relatively recent graduate of ours. I trust that you will all do your best to make her feel welcome and answer any questions she may have about her new position.” There’s a smattering of nods and quiet affirmations. “Wonderful! Now, let us take our seats. The students won’t be long.”

True to his word, the first students arrive mere minutes later. They saunter in with friends and housemates, barely paying any mind to the head table, let alone their new teacher. It’s something of a relief.

Trixie enjoys her anonymity immensely.

…It’s too bad it only lasts through dinner.

“-your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher – Beatrix Locke!”

What was once a few curious stares here and there, turns into the full attention of the entire student body. She smiles broadly to hide her nerves, making sure to turn that smile on all the students, rather than letting it linger in any one place. Dumbledore continues speaking, but at least half of the students keep their eyes fixed on her.

It’s only once the feast is over and the students dismissed that she feels her shoulders ease downwards. She chats superficially with a few of the other teachers, but ultimately excuses herself early, citing her need to unpack and settle in fully.

When she gets back to her room, she flops down on her bed and has to pinch herself to be sure she’s really awake. Leading up to the Third Task in the Triwizard Tournament, Trixie had left plenty of anonymous letters and warnings. None of them had been heeded.

When news of Cedric Diggory’s death reached her, she nearly gave up then and there. It was fate, she told herself, not something she could fight. Still, she found herself asking her fellow aurors why they didn’t apply for the newly opened Defense position at Hogwarts. Some laughed her off, others mentioned the curse, but it wasn’t until her department head had overheard one of these conversations that she considered herself for the position.

The older witch had said, quite plainly, “If you feel so strongly about it, you should put your own name forward.”

“Madam Bones?”

“You’re an excellent auror, Locke, but if you feel that strongly about the education of our youth, you should pursue it.” Bones had smiled then. “Who knows, maybe under your tutelage we’ll have more worthy prospects than what we’ve been stuck with these past few years.”

Trixie had thanked the other witch for the implied compliment, and then replayed the conversation in her head over and over the rest of that day. Finally, realizing there was nothing stopping her from doing just that, she put in her two weeks notice and started crafting a rough set of lesson plans.

And now, here she is. Back at Hogwarts and in charge of one of the most important core subjects. Her only consolation is that she knew she would have to _try_ to fail in order to be a worse teacher than Umbridge.

…It is admittedly a _small_ consolation.


	2. Chapter 2

September 1st was a Friday, so Trixie has the entire weekend to practice her lectures in her bathroom mirror. Of course, even that can’t take up all her time, so she spares a few hours on Saturday to head into Diagon Alley to fetch a few paintings for her classroom. The rest of her decorating can be done over the course of the first month, but it's important to have _something_ to make the space her own when classes start.

Outside of preparing for classes, she also gets a chance to interact with her fellow teachers before and after meals in the great hall. Of course, she mostly uses that time to solicit advice on how to maintain order in her classroom. Actual socializing can come later.

None of the students have approached her yet, but she hasn't missed the speculative stares. It's obvious that they're wondering why she’s taken the job, considering what happened to the last teacher. They likely think there's something wrong with her or her career prospects, for taking an obviously cursed position. Worse, her obvious youth will probably make it challenging for her to gain their respect – especially amongst the upper years.

She resolves to nip that in the bud as soon as she can.

That in mind, she gets up early Monday morning and dresses in black trousers with a crisp white button-up, then dons a cropped black over-robe which only reaches her knees. It is, aside from the color, very similar to her auror uniform.

She pulls her long hair into high bun, one with a braid wrapped around its base – her only concession to vanity. Then, after practicing her sternest expressions in her mirror, she takes off for the great hall.

There, she gives polite greetings to the teachers who’ve already arrived, but mostly keeps her attention fixed on her schedule as she eats. Her first class on Mondays is with Slytherin-Gryffindor third years, followed by two classes of sixth years (mixed between all houses depending on their schedule), then Hufflepuff-Slytherin first years. Lastly, she’ll have her first class with the Slytherin-Gryffindor OWL students.

The third years are an easy start, thankfully. She gives them a general overview of their curriculum and a brief, two-part test. Many of the students look comically dismayed at the news, but their expressions clear quickly when she explains it isn’t for a grade. The written portion takes about thirty minutes, after which she has them partner up and take turns with dueling spells they should have learned in first and second year.

She sets aside the written exams to be checked over later, but judging by the practical portion, only about two in every three students is grade level. Luckily, Trixie had been prepared for that. She lets them practice for a while and then has them return to their seats so she can pass out comprehensive study guides. Their homework is to look over the first half before their next class. Once that’s done, there are only ten minutes left, so she brings out a training dummy and proceeds to demonstrate the most common spells a third year needs for their exams.

“By the end of this year each and every one of you should be able to cast those spells. If you have trouble at any point, practical or otherwise, I expect you to come to me for help. Is that understood?”

They chorus their affirmatives.

“Good, then you’re free to go. I’ll see you all on Wednesday.”

The sixth years are next. Like with the third years, she gives them their overview for the year, followed by testing so she might gage where the gaps in their education are.

The written portion of the exam passes without much fanfare, but when she announces the practical portion, many of them look a little too gleeful. Wary of the damage they might inflict on one another, she brings out more training dummies instead of allowing them to partner up. Actual duels will have to be spread out over the course of the year, so that she can carefully overlook the matches and prevent any permanent damage. In the end, it’s apparent that all but an odd few are grade level or beyond. She isn’t surprised. It’s a NEWT-level course; only students with real talent for the subject are enrolled at this point in their Hogwarts career.

Ultimately, the biggest difference between the two sixth year classes and the third year class, other than subject matter, is that the spells she gets to demonstrate at the end are much more fun.

She eats lunch at her desk after that, too exhausted to make the trek to the great hall. Despite the fact that she’d gone into her first day with a clear and simple plan, there are a few factors she’d failed to consider. One, she is not at all prepared for the physical toll that _talking_ is going to take. Two, her memory for names and faces is _shite._ And three, it’s hard to remember what she’s said to one class versus another – at least in regards to the back-to-back classes of sixth years.

She holds out hope that those problems will be rectified with time.

The lunch hour ends all too soon. In no time at all she’s back on her feet and clearing her aching throat. ' _What I wouldn't give for a muggle cough drop…'_

The first years are next, and they quickly establish themselves as her favorite class. They’re embarrassingly impressed with her status as a former auror, have none of the bad habits to correct or missing knowledge that the older years did, and are bloody adorable to boot!

The class flies by, and soon Trixie is facing down her last class of the day.

She opens the classroom door and stands back to let the fifth years in. Once everyone is inside she walks over and leans against the front of her desk, facing the students. “Hello, everyone. My name is Beatrix Locke. I’ll be your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for the year.” A few of the students are still shuffling around, figuring out seating arrangements. She clears her throat pointedly (and also to ease the sudden dryness). “Please take a seat and open your books to page twenty-four.” Reluctantly, they do so. “Now, if I could have a volunteer to read the last paragraph of the introduction aloud?”

Hermione Granger, recognizable due to her Gryffindor patch and rather large head of hair, raises her hand immediately.

“Go ahead, Miss-?”

“Granger. Hermione Granger.” Trixie nods and the girl clears her throat. “Defensive magic, at its core, is a branch of magic consisting solely of spells designed to protect the user from dangerous magical creatures, curses, and jinxes. It is also, quite unfortunately, the branch of magic to which offensive and dangerous spells are oft attributed. It is this author’s hope that the following text will encourage readers to reconsider what is truly defensive magic versus what is dark magic masquerading as defense.”

Hermione finishes reading and immediately raises her hand.

“Go ahead.”

“I disagree,” Hermione says boldly. “Surely there must be cases in which offensive spells are necessary for defense?”

“One point to Gryffindor.” The teenagers look up at her in bemusement. “You’ve made exactly the point I was hoping to express.

“You’ll find, over the course of this year, that this text’s author and I share very few views. In fact, you would be hard pressed to find a former or current auror that did not want to hex the misinformed soul who wrote this book.”

Granger frowns. “Then why choose-”

“Ah, but I didn’t choose it, Miss Granger,” Trixie says, cutting off the teen. “This book was chosen by the woman who would have been your professor, had I not taken the job.” She begins pacing up and down the small aisle that separates the room. “It would be lovely, if witches and wizards need only defend, never attack. But tell me, can anyone here think of a situation when defensive spells and retreat wouldn’t be enough?”

“When you’re facing down a dark wizard.”

 “Yes.” Trixie glances at Harry Potter long enough to give a nod of acknowledgement before turning towards the rest of the class, heart beating rapidly in her throat. “When else?”

“…When you need to save someone else from an attack and they’re too far away for a shield to reach?”

Trixie smiles triumphantly at the blonde boy who’d answered. “Yes! Then too! A lot of defensive magic can be unfortunately close-range. When else?”

“When you’re f-fighting more than one opponent,” says another blonde. He has a sweet, rounded face that wouldn’t  look out of place on someone a year or two younger. “Shield spells don’t always hold up against multiple spells or from multiple directions.”

“You’re absolutely right.” She looks around. “That’s three Gryffindors. Any Slytherins want to give an example?”

“If a dark creature attacks you,” a sullen-looking boy answers. “Many of them have hides that are spell-resistant to all but the most powerful curses. Not to mention the fact that some of them attack in ways that we have no defense for, like dementors.”

Trixie masterfully refrains from glancing at Potter. “Yes, as you may be aware. There is no defense for a dementor’s kiss. Your best bet is to drive them off with a Patronus charm – which is technically an offensive spell.”

A girl with a square jaw and dark eyes raises a hand next. Trixie nods in her direction. “You need offensive spells for competitive dueling,” she says firmly. “It would be boring and you’d probably lose if you didn’t actually _attack_ your opponent.”

Trixie beams. “Yes! I was wondering if someone would think of dueling. Not everything has to be about survival. Competitive dueling is an excellent way to keep in shape, and if you’re really good, a great way to win prize money.” She claps her hands together. “Excellent. So, now that we’ve established why a range of magic, both offensive and defensive, is necessary – let’s talk about what you can expect to learn this year.”

Introduction finished for the last time that day, she feels the tenseness ease from her neck and shoulders. The whole reason she’d included that bit of book-reading at the beginning of each class had been for Potter’s sake. Trixie doesn’t doubt that while she may have delayed Umbridge’s arrival, the woman will still intrude at some point. Best to get the students thinking critically well before all that.

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that she gets to distance herself from such an utter farce of a textbook. Slinkhard was a joke and his book is not at all worthy of being one of Hogwarts’ required texts.

In fact… Maybe she could recommend a few books as supplemental reading? Possibly even keep them in her office so students who came in for extra help could have a second point of reference?

A moment passes before she realizes that she's just thought the words 'supplemental reading' with eagerness. _'Wow. What a lame thought. Maybe I_  am _cut out for this teaching thing after all.'_


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the week passes with very little fanfare. Trixie spends most of Friday night grading her little assessments and then all of Saturday shoring up her curriculum. She'd had a general plan for each year, but concrete schedules had been all but pointless until she knew how much review would be necessary. The answer, she soon finds out, is  _a lot._ Lupin and the false-moody were decent, if the second and third-years are any indication, but Lockhart deserves a kick in the rear.

Honestly, it's as though anyone who had him skipped an entire year of Defense! Even the sixth years, who otherwise seem very competent, utterly _failed_ the section on dangerous magical creatures. Apparently, Lockhart had only briefly dicussed identifiers and utterly failed to include ethical use of spells against creatures.

It's a fairly major gap.

Contrary to what the "Senior Undersecretary" may claim in the papers, it's not as though magicals are expected or even encouraged to kill or capture every dangerous nonhuman they come across. Just like most sensible muggles agree it's wrong to kill animals on the basis of the _possible_ threat they pose, wizards generally leave dangerous creatures to themselves. Many of the spells taught in third year are meant for worst case scenarios. If a pest somehow gets into a home; if a witch or wizard stumbles into a predator's territory... _Those_ are situations in which defense is necessary. But if the creature is just minding its own business? Live and let live!

"What got you in such a tizzy this morning?"

Trixie lowers the Daily Prophet's Sunday issue with a sigh. "Oh, I suppose I'm just annoyed with all the new legislation being passed." She turns to face Pomona Sprout in full, and gasps in surprise. "But that's not important - what on earth happened to you?!"

The older witch is covered head to toe in vibrant green powder. She laughs at Trixie's baffled stare. "A bit of an accident in green house four, I'm afraid. I borrowed some pixies from Professor Grubbly-Plank to pollinate my valerians and a few other flowering breeds. As you can see, the mischeivious little buggers got the best of me." 

"Do you want me to-" She gestures with her hand, mimicking wand-movements.

"No. It's sweet of you to offer, but I've already tried. This particular batch is spell-resistant."

"Ah." Trixie doesn't really know what to say to that and the other woman doesn't seem particularly bothered, so she switches the subject. "Where is Mr. Hagrid anyway? I thought he was the new Care of Magical Creatures professor?"

Pomona shrugs. "Taking some time off, I expect. He's been at Hogwarts for years, even before he was a professor."

Trixie nods an easy accpetance. "Fair enough, I suppose I'd want a change of scenary too." She knows it's not the truth, but she doesn't care about that. She already knows where the half-giant is. That wasn't the point of her question. The point was to see if _Pomona_ knew. From what she can tell, the Herbology professor is either a great liar or completely uninvolved in the Order of the Phoenix. Needless to say, Trixie assumes it's the latter. Pomona doesn't strike her as someone particularly duplicitous.

 _'That's one more off the list.'_ The list of professors who might also be Order members, that is.

In addition to delaying Umbridge and preparing the students, Trixie has one other major goal. She wants to join the Order. To make that happen, she needs to ingratiate herself with known members. Unfortunately, aside from Snape and Dumbledore himself, she's pretty sure that most teachers are just that. Teachers. Still, she'll continue feeling the other professors out just in case.

Anything to avoid Snape. She  _really_ doesn't want to go anywhere near the man until she's exhausted all other avenues. He'd been fine when she had him as a teacher, but now... Well, the fact that she's taken the DADA position is apparently displeasing. In the past week, he's spent most mealtimes glaring at either her or Dumbledore. Case in point, she can feel someone glaring at her now.

Trixie cuts her eyes to the other end of the hall and sure enough, Snape is glowering at her as he stalks up to the staff table. 

Pomona notices too. She frowns, contorting her sweet face into a rare expression of displeasure. "I see Severus is in rare form this morning."

McGonagall, having just arrived, scoffs a little in the back of her throat and leans in to comment, "When isn't he, nowadays?" She peers over her spectacles to fix her light green eyes on Trixie's face. "Don't take him too seriously, Ms. Locke. He'll get over it soon enough."

"Right." She doesn't feel the need to ask what 'it' is. Everyone and their mother knows he's eager for the Defense position. Of course, knowing what will happen when he finally gets it, Trixie almost wishes she could warn him away from it.

Not that she thinks he would listen. He doesn't seem the type to put stock in seers, let alone in whatever she is. Especially not after all the trouble Trelawney's caused him.

...Speaking of seers, Trixie takes one last swig of her tea and then peers into the cup to examine the leaves. It's ironic. With her foreknowledge, the last thing anyone'd expect is for her to have an actual talent for predicting the future. But she does, so she uses it to fill in the gaps. _'What's on the agenda for today?'_ For a moment all she sees is a dark blob, then the image resolves itself into that of a lion mid-roar. " _Oh_ ," she murmers quietly, eyes widening of their own accord.

Apparently, she isn't quiet enough to go unheard. "What is it, Beatrix?" Pomona asks.

Deliberately setting her teacup aside, she grins at the stout witch. "I've just remembered something, please excuse me." She scrambles for her bag and tosses down her napkin. "Good luck with the pollen!"

Pomona says something back, but Trixie's mind is already miles away.  _'I should've known,_ _'_ she thinks giddily.  _'He's never been good at staying mad at me.'_  

In her haste, she nearly runs over a few students on her way out of the great hall. She offers them sincere apologies but doesn't slow down one bit, only stopping when she collides with a teenage boy coming round a corner.

She has to grab one of the sconces on the wall to keep her feet. _'Good thing it's daytime.'_ If it were night, she'd have just gotten hot candle wax all over her arm. As it is, she merely ends up looking foolish in the split second before she rights herself. The student across from her is not nearly so lucky, landing on his ass and dropping his wand. "Sorry," she says, scrambling to help him up and pass him his wand. "I shouldn't rush through the halls like that. Are you alright?"

"S'fine," he says, not looking at her.

Something starts niggling at her instincts, telling her not to take him at face value. "Are you sure? I-"

"I'm sure," he says, cutting her off and brushing past her.

"...Well then." There's not much she can do if he insists he's fine. She dismisses the strange interaction and continues on her way, exitement building once more. Soon she's speed-walking through the wide hall which leads to Hogwarts' front entrance. She pulls her wand from the holster at her hip and aims a sharp flick at the double doors. They swing open with a loud groan, nearly hitting the figure on the other side.

The man startles and steps back with a scowl. "Bloody fucking hell, Trixie! You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Sorry, Rufus." She fails to sound the least bit apologetic - earning an even deeper scowl from her mentor. 

"How did you know I was here anyway?" He asks.

She grins at him. "Saw it in my tea leaves."

He rolls his eyes. "You and your damn tea leaves."

It's a familiar refrain. "Oh, come on," she cajoles. "You know you love my little predictions."

"You saw me through a window, didn't you?"

Trixie smiles secretively. "I neither confirm nor deny." She gets a thrill out of playing this game. Her not-inconsiderable talent for divination is something of a joke among her family and friends. The more open she is about her gift, the less they believe she actually has it. It's kind of hilarious, though not all that surprising. True talent is rare. Really, _really_ rare. Most people who claim they have the Sight are full of shit.

Even when she's uncannily accurate, everyone chalks it up to perceptiveness. Rufus is chief among them. He  _hates_  it when she claims she read tea leaves or looked into a crystal ball for her answers. He often chides her for 'trying to diguise her competence as fortune-telling.'

Of course, as far as talents go, it's not actually that useful. Good for little things, sure. But without her knowledge from  _before_ , she'd have no clue about the war that was coming. It's something she's truthfully a little bitter about.

"You don't seem surprised to see me." He turns away to glare at the lake. "I didn't realize I was so predictable."

His tone is more caustic than usual. Trixie loses her grin and steps out onto the grounds, closing the doors behind her. "I'm sorry, Rufus. I don't mean to make it seem like you've already forgiven me."

He sighs and closes his startlingly yellow eyes. "Don't you?"

"Okay," she admits. "I had my suspicions from the moment I saw you. But that's neither here nor there." She steps closer and fights the urge to reach for his hand. She _really_ needs to get over this inappropriate crush. "I've known you for five years. At this point, most of what you do is predictable to me." His mouth quirks and she takes it as encouragement. "I mean, honestly, did you expect to stay mad at me forever?"

"No, of course not." He drags a hand through his wild mane of hair. "But this doesn't mean I approve. I'm still hoping to convince you to return."

"I wouldn't expect anything less." She starts walking away from him, calling over her shoulder. "Join me for a lap around the lake?"

They spend the rest of the morning together, walking the grounds and chatting about old cases. It's nice, even if they do have to dance around the fact that she quit. In fact, it's so nice that by the time he leaves, she's worried she made the wrong choice.

Sure, they may never be the May-December romance she fantasizes about, but they were working like a well-oiled machine before she left. She'd been freshly eighteen when he'd taken over her training and he hadn't reliquished the responsibility when he became Head Auror less than a year later. Even three years after that, when she was an auror in full, he'd had her continue to report directly to him.

And on the few missions important enough that he had to go himself, he always made sure she was a member of his team. She was afforded opportunities no other rookie was. Sometimes, she half wonders if he hadn't been grooming her to take over his position when he made his bid for head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Still, however much she sighs over might-have-beens, she knows she's on the right path. Her fellow aurors will be fine without her. She was good, but not that good. At Hogwarts, she has a chance to make a real difference. She's  _already_  made a difference.

And Rufus Scrimgeour will just have to accept that.

.

.

.

The second week of term proves to be a bit more interesting than the first. Buoyed by Rufus' visit and her completion of all seven years of course schedules, Trixie practically floats through classes. Despite trying to smother it, she notices a small smile lurking at the corners of her mouth every time she catches her own reflection.

Even now, the Thursday after his visit, she still feels cheerful.

"-anyone tell me the incantation for the disarming charm?"

Most of the fourth year students raise their hands. Trxie smiles. "Well, go on then. Say it aloud."

 _"Expelliarmus,_ _"_ they chorus dutifully, some of them rolling their eyes.

"Right. Can anyone tell me the possible uses for this spell?"

A ravenclaw girl with dark brown hair that reaches the small of her back is the only one to raise her hand. "It's to disarm an opponent of their wand," she says.

"That's the obvious use, yes. Anyone else?" They remain stubbornly silent. "Okay, let me provide an example." Trixie looks out and points to a redhead she thinks might be Ginny Weasley. "You, there - what's your name?"

"Ginny Weasley, Professor."

 _'I knew it!'_ "Okay, Miss Weasley. Please come to the front." The girl trudges up with a slight frown, pulling her wand from her sleeve on the way. "No need for that," Trixie tells her. She pulls the beige cloth from her desk and the students gasp when the sword underneath is revealed. " _This_ will be your weapon."

Ginny picks it up, looking a little wide-eyed.

"Perfect, hold it just like that." Trixie pulls out her wand and says, "Watch.  _Expelliarmus!"_ The sword is yanked from Ginny's hands and sent careening towards her blade first. Amidst the gasps and screams, Trixie calmly sidesteps and snatches the handle out of the air as it passes by. "Lovely, thank you Miss Weasley." She turns to face the rest of the class, reveling in their awestruck stares. "As you can see, any weapon is fair game. In fact," she transfigures the sword into an apple and hands it to Ginny. " _Expelliarmus._ " The apple comes soaring over, landing neatly in her palm. "It even works on non traditional weapons. All it takes is intent. If you think an object might be used to hurt you, you can disarm someone of it."

Their sudden interest is gratifying. You could hear a pin drop. She sets the sword-turned-apple on her desk. "Let's move on to the practical portion. I'll need you to pick a random object from the crate in the corner and then partner up while I get your desks out of the way." They dutifully follow her directions and soon she has two neat rows of students in the center of the room. "Okay, everyone on this side of the room will be using their wands to disarm their partners. Everyone on  _this_ side of the room will be brandishing their object like a weapon."

A boy raises hand. "My partner's got a stuffed bunny! How am I supposed to be able to picture that as a weapon?"

Trixie turns to his partner with a smirk. "You have my permission to chuck that bunny at his head if he doesn't succeed after three tries. Actually," she raises her voice. "Same goes for all of you. Feel free to start throwing things if your partner needs the extra incentive!"

The students all laugh. 

"I'm serious. Just because we're reviewing doesn't mean we can't have fun. Let's begin on 1, 2, _3_!"

Chaos ensues.


	4. Chapter 4

With nothing to negate it, Trixie's general contentment lasts all the way through the following day, right up McGonagall corners her at dinner.

"...With Professor Snape?" Her lingering smile is definitely gone.

The deputy headmistress gazes at her with poorly concealed pity. "Indeed."

"Right then. Thanks for letting me know."  _'If I don't return, please tell my parents I loved them.'_ She obviously doesn't say the last bit out loud, however much she might like to. Logical or not, she finds Snape much scarier than any of the criminals she's faced in the past. "How long am I expected to patrol?"

"Just until one o'clock. No one expects you to stay up all night."

Trixie nods. "And where am I supposed to meet Professor Snape?" The first and only other time it had been her turn to patrol, she and Pomona had met in the entrance hall and planned out their respective routes between talk of classes and friendly questions. It had been a Tuesday to boot, meaning their patrol only lasted two hours after curfew. Somehow, she doesn't think tonight's experience will be anywhere near as pleasant.

"Outside the potions lab. He does most of his brewing at night, when there are no students around to disturb him."

"I see." Trixie deliberately does not look down the table at the man in question. "Thank you for letting me know, Professor." Unlike Sprout and Flitwick, McGonagall hasn't yet corrected the way she's addressed. Either she hasn't noticed - too used to the title - or she prefers not to be on first name basis with someone so young. Trixie's not sure which one offends her more. As an auror she'd-

 _'No,'_ she thinks, dismissing the thought. _'Best not to dwell on such things. The past is the past. You'll earn respect here too - it just takes time and effort.'_

Her internal pep talk doesn't do much to improve her suddenly sour mood. Despite how well classes are going, Trixie still feels a bit out of place, like she shouldn't be here. Of course, considering her knowledge, perhaps such feelings are to be expected. 

She picks at her food and drinks at least three cups of tea before finally giving up on dinner altogether. She pointedly does not read her tea leaves. "I think I'm done for the night," she announces. "I'll see you all tomorrow morning."

The teachers around her bid her good night and she slips away to her private rooms. She naps for nearly three hours, then showers and dresses in thick black robes. If she has to spend her night wandering the castle, she's damn well going to be warm while she does it.

A few students are still out and about as she makes her way to the dungeons, but not many. She hopes that all of them make it to their dorms on time. She doesn't really care for taking points or assigning detention. Then again, it's probably better to give detention herself, rather than let Snape do it. From what she remembers of her own school years, the man is entirely too fond of having students scrub cauldrons.

She arrives at the potion's lab with five minutes to spare and, instead of entering, waits four minutes before knocking softly. He may be angry with her now, but she'd once been one of the students he disliked the least. She knows how to avoid annoying him more than necessary.

"Come in."

She enters cautiously, stopping just inside the doorway and clasping her right wrist in her left hand. "Good evening," she says politely, ready to get this over with.

Too bad for her, Snape does not seem to feel the same way. He ignores her greeting and continues measuring out small amounts of potion and pouring each dose into a small glass vial. Trixie exhales through her nose and starts to count to a hundred. When she reaches eighty-three, he finally speaks. "You will take the third floor through the seventh, as well as the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw towers." He raises a dark eyebrow. "Is that understood?"

A little irritated at being treated like a student once more, but knowing better than to show it, Trixie nods her acceptance. "Will we need to meet back up at the end of the night for a joint round?" she asks. "Or is that something unique to Pomona?"

He sneers. "I see no need to do so when we'll cover more ground separately."

Still keeping a lid on her own irritation, she says, "Of course," and turns to go.

"And Locke?"

"Yes,  _Snape?_ "

For a moment, he looks taken aback. Clearly, he hadn't expected her to treat him with the same lack of respect he showed her. It only lasts a second before his perpetual frown returns. "In the future," he says, voice silky smooth, "There will be no need to infringe upon my time. I'll expect you to take the same circuit."

"How wonderfully efficient," she says, not entirely sarcastically. Snape doesn't visibly react, but she gets the sense that he's caught between amusement and offense. "Good night." She leaves before he can respond.

If it were a competition, she thinks she would have won that round. She doesn't expect that will be the case in their future interactions, but for now she's quite pleased with herself. She's just proven that his petty provocations don't faze her.

Even better, she doesn't catch a single student out of bed that night.

.

.

.

Despite her late night, Trixie wakes before seven the next morning. She's still tired, but she's not the sort of person who can go back to sleep once she's up. Resigned to a long day, she decides to do something fun to make up for it. "Now where did I-" she rummages through her wardrobe and trunk before finally spotting her broom, tucked in a corner. "There you are!"

Flying, in her opinion, is the best part about being a witch. Forget spellcasting or brewing potions. Racing about, hundreds of feet off the ground... Best feeling in the world. When she was fifteen and her memories of her past life returned, flying was just about the only thing that kept her going. When she was up in the air, not even her ongoing existential crisis could reach her.

Eager for that release, she changes into something casual and heads for the quidditch pitch.

On the way, she runs into Slytherin's team. The captain, a seventh year student she recognizes from one of her NEWT classes, immediately invites her to come and watch their first official practice. "Locke was the captain my first two years at Hogwarts," he tells his teammates. "She's the one who convinced me to become a keeper, instead of a beater."

It takes a moment for the implications to sink in. "Miles? Miles Bletchley?!"

He nods, grinning ear to ear. "You didn't say anything in class, so I was wondering if you remembered me."

"Of course I do," she cries. "I just didn't recognize you - you're  _at least_ four stone heavier than the last time I saw you!" Now that she's looking for it, she can see the ressemblence, though only just. "What happened to the scrawny second year I took a chance on?" She doesn't wait for an answer, shaking her head in disbelief. "This is insane. Now I'm morally obligated to sit in on your practice," she declares. "I need to make sure you didn't forget any of my lessons."

He rolls his shoulder with an exagerrated grimace. "I'm still sore from the last time we played together."

Trixie laughs. "I'd nearly forgotten about that. You dislocated your shoulder in your very first practice, didn't you?"

"Yeah. It was worth it though. We absolutely crushed Gryffindor in the finals that year." 

"That we did," she agrees. "Merlin, that was a stressful year. You're not Head Boy are you? Because let me tell you, dealing with those responsibilities on top of being quidditch captain? Not worth it." He shakes his head emphatically. "Thank goodness." They start walking again and the rest of the all-boy team follows them. She stares at them contemplatively. "Go on, Bletchley. Introduce me to your teammates."

He gestures to the two largest members. "The two blokes here are Crabbe and Goyle, our new beaters." He waves at the slightest boy next. "And this is Malfoy. He's seeker. You probably know his father." She nods, recognizing the platinum hair and disdainful expression. "And these are our chasers; Warrington-"

Trixie misses the last two names as blood rushes in her ears.  _'Shit, can I not make it a day without some kind of shock?'_ Between this and Snape, if she has one more bit of unexpected news she's going to suffer an aneurysm. She'd known he was at Hogwarts, but had been doing a very good job of not learning the names of his year.

Fortunately, it doesn't seem like her cousin is aware of their connection.  _'Thank Merlin for small mercies.'_ Trixie does her best to push it from her mind, focusing on her genuine pleasure at seeing Bletchley again. "Right you lot," she says with forced cheer. "Let's see what you can do!"

.

.

.

An hour later, Bletchley and the others dismount, looking windswept and winded. "That was fantastic," he says. "I haven't felt so tired in _ages._ With you on our side, we're sure to win the Cup!"

"I certainly hope so," she tells him, faux-sternly. "I'd hate for my efforts to go to waste."

He salutes her. "They won't." He spins around to shout at his team. "Great job today, team. We meet again Wednesday night." He rakes a hand through sweaty hair, grimaces, and adds, "And for Merlin's sake,  _please_  shower!" He turns back to her and says, "Enjoy your flight!" before jogging for the showers himself.

She remounts her broom once all of them are gone, eager to get in the air. She'd circled high above the pitch while the Slytherin team had practiced, shouting critiques and charming the quaffle, but she hadn't yet  _flown._

Now's her chance. With a tiny, exhilarated cry, she tears off in the direction of Hogsmeade. The wind stings her eyes and tears her hair free of its neat ponytail, but she hardly minds. She's  _free._

She does barrel rolls and loop-the-loops, interspersed with dives and straight flying. It's enough that, by the time she reaches the little village, her abs are aching terribly. She lands just outside the Three Broomsticks, securing her broom to one of the chains available for just that reason. "Welcome!" Madam Rosmerta calls as she enters. "What can I get you?"

"Tea, please." She can see some other witches and wizards already drinking, but it's too early in the day for anyone but an alcoholic to consider alcohol. "Oh, by the way, is it alright if I use your floo?"

Rosmerta points to a sign. "It's ten knuts for a call. A sickle for a trip."

"Of course." She fishes out the appropriate change and passes it over.

"It's through here." Trixie follows the blonde to through the kitchen and to a little alcove with a fireplace. "Floo powder's on the mantel. Tea should be ready by the time you're done."

"Thanks."

Trixie pinches the appropriate amount of powder and tosses it into the flames, waiting until they're entirely green before kneeling down to stick her head in. "428 Queenly Way, London." The bricks in front of her swirl disconcertingly for a moment before disappearing entirely, revealing a small room decorated in shades of beige and brown. "Rufus," she calls. "Are you home?"

Footsteps sound from the direction of the kitchen, reveling her mentor in all his early morning glory. His tawny hair is wilder than usual and he's still wearing pajamas. "What?" he growls.

Ignoring his mood, Trixie grins brightly. "I'm getting brunch at the Three Broomsticks. You should get dressed and join me."

He narrows his eyes at her. "...Fine. But give me fifteen minutes."

"Sure, I'll be waiting." She pulls her head out without another word. "Ugh." Floo calls always leave her feeling sooty. She shakes out her hair and returns to the front room, grateful for the piping hot tea already waiting for her. 

True to his word, Rufus arrives exactly fifteen minutes later, reaching out to pour his own cup from the kettle without so much as a by your leave. "What?"

 _'Ugh, men.'_ Trixie shakes her head, unwilling to argue about manners so early in the morning. "Tell me, how's work going? Do you miss me terribly?"

He scowls fiercely. "That idiot Savage has taken on your old duties."

"What?" She nearly chokes on her tea. "Why on earth would you choose him? Why not Dawlish?" John Dawlish is the oldest and most capable auror who doesn't already have a specialty or side position. "I mean, honestly, the man has been up for promotion  _six times_ \- how the hell did he get passed over a  _seventh?_ "

"He opened his fool mouth again."

Trixie winces. "Oh no. Who did he offend this time?"

"Madame Bones."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "What did he say?"

Her mentor shifts a bit uncomfortably. "He made some..." he hesitates, choosing his words carefully, _"Unwise_ remarks about the appearances of women over fifty." If he were any other man, Trixie thinks he'd be blushing. "Madam Bones was behind him - she'd just arrived to approve the promotion."

This time she really does choke on her tea. "That-" She coughs and has to clear her throat to continue. "That is so much worse than last time."

Rufus cracks an uncharacteristic smile, just for a moment. "But not as bad as the time with the French Minister."

"Yeah, well, nothing can beat that disaster." She shakes her head ruefully. "Poor bastard." She squints into the distance, recalling the day with unfortunate clarity. "Say, did he ever manage to lift that fertility curse?"

"Not to my knowledge, no."


	5. Chapter 5

She and Rufus only spend an hour together, leaving Trixie with almost her entire day free.

There's nothing she _needs_ to do, so she considers returning to the castle for a shower and a nap. It sounds heavenly, but her good sense gets the better of her. _'I'm alreay out, I might as well run some errands.'_

Leaving her broom secured in Hogsmeade (under some particularly nasty anti-theft curses), Trixie apparates to Diagon Alley. 

She buys a new cauldron, her favorite brand of tea, some toiletries, and a plethora of odds and ends. By the end of it, even featherlight charms can't help with the sheer size of her shopping bags. Barely able to walk beneath the cumbersome things, she's forced to apparate more carefully than usual, lest she lose everything to the ether.

She reappears and nearly topples over. Luckily, a friendly couple stops to help (though not without teasing her for getting carried away). After thanking them profusely, Trixie makes her way to her broom and loads her bags over the back end. 

 _'Finally.'_  

The flight back to the castle is not quite as fun as her flight to Hogsmeade, but it's still pleasant. She flies high above the trees and drifts along at a sedate pace. The sun is quickly sinking into the distance, giving the world around her a hazy, dreamy quality. Eventually, she passes the quidditch pitch.

She almost continues past - the thought of a long hot shower is _really_ enticing - but the sight of a lone figure near the goal posts has her hesitating.  _'Who on earth-?'_ She flies over, ready to order the student inside, only to catch sight of their vibrantly ginger hair. _'I'm running into all sorts of characters lately.'_ "Mr. Weasley?" The teen freezes. "What are you doing out here so late? Gryffindor practice was hours ago, wasn't it?"

"Erm, well-" Even in the semi-dark, he looks a bit red beneath his freckles. "I'm new to the team and not that good, so I thought I'd get some extra practice in." He says this in a rush, clearly embarrassed.

"That's admirable," she tells him honestly, reminded abruptly of the book series she'd read a lifetime ago. She'd forgotten about Ron Weasley's performance anxiety, it had been funny when he was fictional, but now she just feels bad. "But you won't be doing anyone any good if you overexert yourself. Besides," she adds, "It's nearly dinner."

His shoulders slump. "Yes, Professor."

The two of them sink downwards, landing and heading towards the castle in silence.

Trixie lets it last for all of thirty seconds before she has a terrible idea. _'Bletchley's going to be pissed.'_ The thought does absolutely nothing to deter her. If anything, it assuages her guilt. Earlier, she'd recognized the glint in Malfoy's eyes when she'd taught the Slytherin team one of her personal spells. It was meant for quidditch practice, but she was nearly positive that he was planning to use it to torment other students. This way, at least one of his likely targets will be able to defend himself.

Resolved, she spins around to face Weasley. "You're a keeper, right?" He nods, looking startled. "Great. Take out your wand. I'm going to teach you a spell."

"A spell?"

She ignores the question. "It's a two part charm. It'll send quaffles careening through whichever goal is easiest to get to. I recommend starting with one and then increasing the number after you manage five minutes without being scored on." He stares at her gormlessly. "Well, go on," she says impatiently. "I haven't got all night."

He hastily pulls out his wand, still looking confused.

"Good. Now watch." She conjures two miniature goal posts, about three feet high in the grass. They won't last long, but they'll work for a demonstration. "You need to prime them with  _prolicio,"_ she jabs her wand towards one post and then at the quaffle in his arms. Immediately, he has to tighten his grip to keep hold of it. She repeats the action with the second goal post. "There, now it's attracted to both. Next," she draws an outline around the ball. " _Collisio defugio._ That'll keep it from colliding with anything." She nods at the quaffle. "You can let go now."

He does so. The red ball careens towards the nearest goal, only to stop and swerve through the other one when Trixie stands in its way. 

"That's brilliant!"

She preens, ending the charms with a careless flick. "Thank you. I came up with it when I was about your age." She stashes her wand at her hip and waves a hand to disrupt the conjurations. "Feel free to practice with it, but don't let anyone know I taught that to you." She winks up at the gangly teen. "I don't want the Slytherin students to think I'm siding with the enemy."

Weasley's grin fades as his brows draw together. "You were in Slytherin?"

She nods. Truthfully, she's been wondering whether the main characters know or not. If Weasley is any indication, they do not. He looks put out by the revelation. "Come on Mr. Weasley," she says, taking pity on the boy. "If you hurry - you'll have just enough time to shower before you meet back up with your friends for dinner." 

.

.

.

Inside the castle, she trudges up the stairs, allowing her broom to float alongside her so she doesn't have to deal with her bags quite yet. Along the way, she has to stop to give directions to a first year, help a surly teenager out of body-bind, and shoo away a too-amorous couple from an alcove.

It leaves her considering skipping dinner altogether. 

Unfortunately, that option is lost to her the moment she enters her bedroom. " _Motley?!"_ Her mother's owl is perched on her window sill, preening. "What on earth are you doing here?"

The owl obligingly shifts so that the tiny tube tied to its right leg is visible. 

Trixie undoes the knot and removes the rolled up letter. She skims it quickly and then groans with feeling. "Pesky woman." Now she has no choice but to go to the great hall for dinner. Worse, she's got to talk to her brothers in public, to pass the message on. 

...And they'd been doing so well pretending they weren't related.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The great hall is booming with laughter and conversation when Trixie walks in. A few students look at her curiously as she approaches the Gryffindor table, but almost everyone else is too preoccupied to pay her much mind. Her brother, Kieran, is near the very end of the long table - surrounded by a group of laughing seventh years.

His self-satisfied smirk disappears when she catches his eye. "Hey," he clambers off the bench and nods to his friends, "I'll be right back."

A pretty girl with golden blonde hair and intense black eyeliner pouts at him and starts to protest, inciting a chorus of questions and complaints from the others. Kieran makes a face, clearly torn, so Trixie steps in. "Sorry everyone," she says. "I need to borrow Mr. McDonnell for a moment. I promise I'll return him straight away."

Her brother takes the out, smiling apologetically to his friends before following her to the Hufflepuff table.

Aidan stands to meet them before they make it halfway there. His brow is furrowed as he walks up to them. "What's wrong?"

Trixie keeps her voice low. "Message from mum," she explains. "I'll tell you more when we're alone."

The two of them trail behind her as she leaves the hall, focused on getting far enough away that no one will overhear them.

It takes nearly fifteen minutes of walking, but soon the three of them are standing huddled in a seldom used hallway, well away from any human portraits. 

"So what's this about?" asks Kieran. 

There's trepidation in his tone that seems utterly out-of-character, at least until Trixie realizes how her actions might be construed. _Maybe I was a touch more dramatic than I should've been..._ Merlin knows if someone had pulled the same act with her, she'd be worrying about a death in the family at this point. She hastens to explain, "Mum's ordered us home for the first Hogsmeade weekend. Grandad's won an award and she wants us all to be there when he accepts it."

Kieran relaxes - _definitely more dramatic than I should have been_ \- and then groans. "But I've already got plans! Can't we just send him a nice card?"

Trixie passes him the letter. "Apparently not." She waits for him to skim it before adding, "She knows you too well." In fact, their mother's exact words had been,  _'Tell Kieran he can suck face with his girlfriend next time.'_ A bit harsh, but entirely warranted.

Aidan, never one to miss an opportunity, fake-coughs, "Man whore." 

The seventh year scoffs and shoves Aidan's shoulder. "Don't look so smug - at least _I_ have a girlfriend."

"More like girlfriend _s_."

_"Boys."_

Both of them turn in sync to roll their eyes at her. "It's disgusting how much like mum you sound."

"Yeah." Aidan looks her up and down before raising an eyebrow. "And why are you suddenly dressing like a dowager aunt?"

She raises her own eyebrows right back. "First of all, how dare you. Secondly, are you daft?" She's wearing a perfectly acceptable set of plain black robes. "This is what business-appropriate dress look like. Obviously I can't wear muggle or riské clothing at work."

"You look like you're on your way to a funeral." He says this as if he's suddeny an authority on women's fashion and she's an affront to his delicate sensibilities. Trixie feels a muscle in her jaw twitch.  _A whole new world with magic and I still get stuck with brothers who'd sooner insult me than_ listen _to me._

She takes a deep breath and counts to ten. "Can we  _please_ focus on the matter at hand?" She's met with two blank stares. "...Really?"

After sharing a look with their brother, Aidan is the one to break the silence. "What else is there to talk about?"

"Oh, I don't know... Maybe the fact that fact that it's a Ministry event and dad is going to be there?" Her tone isn't the gentlest, but considering the circumstances, she feels it's warranted.

The abruptly agast expressions are gratifying for maybe three seconds before she remembers that they're all in the same boat.

"Merlin." Kieran rubs at his temple irritably. "And mum's still making us go?"

Trixie nods. "You know how she is. So long as he doesn't try to talk to  _her,_ it's both his right and responsibility to try and connect with us." The groan that Kieran heaves in response pretty much sums up how she feels. "I know, but if we take turns distracting him it shouldn't be too bad. At the very least, it will give the other two a break."

"This is going to be terrible," says Aidan, blunt as ever.

"...Yeah." It really will.

.

.

.

After their talk, the three of them return to the great hall in low spirits, where Trixie picks at her meal and excuses herself early. She's sure the only reason her brothers don't do the same is because they're bottomless pits when it comes to food.

Still, as foul a mood as she's in, she can always count on busywork to distract her. With that in mind, she skips her long-awaited shower in favor of lesson prepping for Monday. 

 _Okay, so if I devote the first twenty minutes to review and the rest to new material - we'll be able to make it through all of the fourth year curriculum before... November maybe?_ Though she wants to touch on _all_ their previous material, the areas the OWL students most need to work on are largely those from their second year. As such, she needs to complete first, third, and fourth year review as quickly as possible.

It's a shame. They know a decent number hexes and deflection spells, to be sure, but aside from a select few (Granger among them), they do not seem to grasp when certain spells would be more useful than others. Lockhart's incompetence has prevented them from learning the basic spell volleying that is a building block to all combative magic!

 _Maybe_ he's _why Potter ends up relying on_ expelliarmus _, of all spells._ Trixie hopes that, if nothing else, she manages to teach the kid one or two alternatives over the course of this year. The disarming charm isn't the only spell suitable for de-escalation.

As for the other students...

In her start-of-year evaluations, Trixie had included a 'what if' section. In it, she'd asked the students to describe what actions they would take if confronted with a number of volatile situations. The answers had been _horrifying_. Illuminating too, but mostly horrifying.  _I can't believe these are the same kids that are supposed to fight a war. Most of them would sooner fall victim to friendly fire than succeed against a grown wizard!_

And with that cheerful thought, a painful migraine forms behind her eyes.

 _I need tea._ With Trixie, a migraine is never just a migraine unless she's hungover (and even then, chances are fifty-fifty).

Without bothering to get up from her desk, she mutters a quiet, " _accio_ ," and summons her bright yellow tea kettle. She could, and probably should, get up and make tea in the kitchenette attached to her rooms, but with the way her head is pounding, even that short walk seems impossible. 

Slowly, as if to mock her, the tea kettle drifts into her office, bumping into the door frame on its way in. When it reaches her, Trixie pulls it out of the air and swiftly vanishes the contents.  _"Aguamenti."_   With a sharp jab she fills it with fresh water and then silently levitates it above her desk. Once it's high enough so as not to catch anything on fire, she flicks her wand and intones,  _"Volito ignis."_

There's a flash of white light and then a small _'whoosh.'_ "Perfect." Trixie nods in satisfaction as flames begin to crackle at the base of the kettle, growing until an orange fire is merrily dancing in midair.

While the water heats up, she summons a porcelain cup and some tea leaves. Then she settles back in her chair with her eyes closed.

A small eternity later, the telltale whistle finally sounds. She sits up and pulls the kettle out of the air, snuffing the fire out with a careless wave of her hand.

Trixie barely waits long enough for the tea to steep, more focused on figuring out whatever future is causing her migraine. She chugs the too hot liquid, winces at the new burn on the roof of her mouth, and peers into the empty cup.

 _Is that a person?_ The blob on the right has what looks like a head and a neck... and maybe an arm? It's hard to tell. Groaning, she squeezes her eyes shut, counts to seven (for luck) and then glances down again.

Definitely a person raising an arm in defense - but in defense against what?

No matter how she rotates the cup, the threat doesn't resolve itself.  _It must have something to do with the fifth years, since I was thinking about them when the migraine hit..._ That unfortunately doesn't narrow it down much. There are forty-odd kids in their fifth year. She purses her lips and tries to reason it out.  _It can't be anyone I'd recognize on sight, or the image would have a defining characteristic._  

Reading tea leaves isn't an exact science. It's not a science at all. For Trixie, the leaves are like a rorschach test. Whatever she "sees" in them, however nonsensical at first glance, triggers a knee-jerk association. Whatever that association is, she knows it's somehow involved in the future she's looking into. As an example, Rufus - with his wild mane of tawny hair - is nearly always represented by a lion. 

Potter, if she were to look into his future, would probably be represented by a stag or a lightning bolt, depending on the medium.

The closer she is to someone, or the more she knows about them, the easier it is for her to interpret their future. The fact that the figure is indistinct is a good indicator that she doesn't know the victim personally.

_So how the hell am I supposed to save them?_


	7. Chapter 7

Sunday dawns dark and dreary.  
  
Trixie spends the first few hours of her day trying to relax. It isn't very convenient, but she's long since learned that obtaining a peaceful state of mind makes her more receptive to possible futures. She tries lounging in bed, reading, and even moves through some half remembered yoga poses. None of it works. At eight, she leaves for breakfast just as tense as she had been when she first woke up.  
  
In fact, she's so high-strung that she startles and slams her shoulder into the doorframe when a squeaky voice shouts, "Professor Locke!"  
  
"Fuck." As soon as the word escapes her she winces and slaps a hand over her mouth.  
  
Her accoster, a unusually tall boy she recognizes from one of her first year classes, grins broadly at the slip.  
  
She coughs awkwardly before he can say anything, stepping into the hall and locking her door with a hasty flick of her wand. "Did you need something Mr. Lawrence?"  
  
The grin vanishes immediately. "Yes!" He rushes forward and tugs on her arm. "Please show me where the great hall is!"  
  
Gently extricating herself from his grip, Trixie fixes him with a skeptical look. It's week  _three._ "You mean to tell me you're still getting lost on the way to breakfast?" Come to think of it, she's pretty sure he's the same boy she'd helped last night.  
  
"The castle is  _confusing_." He pouts up at her. "No one will give me a map."  
  
She rolls her eyes. "That's because no one else needs a map. Everyone learns the general directions in their first few weeks of school."  
  
"How can I?!" he cries. "How is  _anyone_  supposed to navigate this place if it won't stay still?!"  
  
Trixie smothers a laugh. "It isn't changing  _that_  much." The hallways may occasionally change in length, and doors occasionally change in appearance, but most major landmarks are still discernable. "C'mon." She gestures down the hall. "We need to head down three flights. This is the fourth floor."  
  
"I know  _that,_ " he huffs. "But none of the staircases to the lower floors would match up with the landing!"  
  
"Did you stand at the very edge?"  
  
He gives her a judgemental look and shakes his head. "Of course not. I'm not an idiot."  
  
Sighing, Trixie steps forward to demonstrate. "I'm afraid you're going to have to abandon your good sense if you want to get anywhere on time." Within moments, their path down appears. "The staircases won't line up for you if they don't know you're there." Not unlike traffic lights, the staircases have 'sensors' upon which a weight must be applied. "If you stand too far back there is no signal to attract the appropriate staircase. They'll just keep shifting randomly."  
  
Lawrence gapes at her for a moment before throwing his hands up dramatically. "Why didn't the prefects mention that?!"  
  
"...I'm not sure that they're aware." It's only thanks to Trixie's love of esosteric knowledge and her determination to make it through the entirety of  _Hogwarts: A History_  that she knows such a fact. "It's probably intuitive for most of them." Melin knows she hadn't even thought about it before her fifth year. Reading Bagshot's book had really opened her eyes to many of the magical quirks that she'd previously taken for granted.  
  
"This school is absolutely mad." He rakes a hand through his short brown hair. " _Magic_  is mad."  
  
Trixie reaches over to awkwardly pat him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, you'll get used to it soon enough."  
  
"...That just means I'm going to be as insane as the rest of you!"  
  
She shruggs, smiling just a little. "You're not wrong."  
  
.  
  
.  
  
.  
  
It doesn't take long for the two of them to reach the ground floor. Trixie, having spent most of the trip pointing out how certain magical features work, is finally feeling relaxed enough to try to divine the warning from last night. Dowsing isn't always reliable, but she's feeling "in tune" enough that narrowing down the victim's house shouldn't be difficult.  
  
_And it's all thanks to a first year with an abysmal sense of direction!_  
  
Unfortunately, all that tension returns with a vengeance the moment she enters the great hall.  
  
"Professor Locke, are you alright? You've gone very pale." Lawrence reaches out to grasp her elbow. "Are you anemic? My mum's anemic and she usually faints when she looks like you do."  
  
"I'm okay, Lawrence." She gently steers him towards the Ravenclaw table. "Now take a seat and get something to eat. Better yet, get several somethings. Between your height and all the wandering around you do, you probably burn more calories in a day than I do in a week."  
  
"It's not my fault this castle is built like a maze. If only they would give me a  _map_..." He starts muttering irately about the staircases and Trixie tunes him out. She'd had enough of his complaints after the fourth time he tried to steer them in the wrong direction.  
  
They reach the table. "I'll see you in class tomorrow, Laurence."  
  
He nods, already distracted by a card game between his housemates. "Hey - what are you playing? Can I join?"  
  
Woodenly, Trixie makes her way to the staff table, deliberately ignoring the pink eyesore in the seat beside Dumbledore. She honestly thought she'd have more time.  
  
Fortunately, the fact that it's a Sunday morning means that any announcements will have to wait until supper. Attendance at breakfast is always sporadic at best, and on weekends students are as likely to sleep in as come down to eat. That gives Trixie just enough time to settle on a plan before she's forced to deal with Umbridge's inevitable censure.  
  
Seeing as she's the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and therefore under the most scrutiny, her original plan of mirroring McGonagall's curt professionalism might not be enough. She doesn't want to ingratiate herself with the woman, but she also can't afford to be too obviously against her. That would make the target on her back bigger than it already is. Likewise, Trixie also doesn't dare adopt Snape's more... aggressive attitude. She hasn't anywhere  _near_  the right connections to pull that off.  
  
_So what's left?_  
  
Playing the part of an eager academic might keep Umbridge at bay for a little while, by virture of being less threatening to Fudge's aims, but it would also put Trixie at a disadvantage when it came time to argue her case. She doubts the toad will listen to a well-reasoned argument as to  _why_  certain subjects are necessary. Hell, in the books the horrid woman did away with practical learning altogether! Trixie can't think of another individual in the Ministry - no matter how deep in Fudge's pocket - who would dare make such a stupid decision, let alone  _want_  to.  
  
Another option would be to fully embrace her status as a former auror, over-emphasizing her experience using combative magic to the benefit of the Ministry. Umbridge would probably still attempt to restrict her curriculum, but she'd have even less of a leg to stand on if Trixie spoke to someone on the Board of Governors.  
  
"You seem awfully deep in thought." Pomona's voice breaks through her frantic thoughts, reminding her that she's in public and therefore under scrutiny.  
  
Sighing, Trixie looks up from her still empty plate and smooths her expression into something less obviously perturbed. "Do I?" she asks, stalling for a moment while she comes up with a reasonable excuse as to why Umbridge's presence has her so out of sorts. Outside of her memories, she's never actually interacted with the woman. "...I'm just a little worried about my job security. I recognize the woman sitting by the Headmaster. She's the one who was set to take over before I applied."  
  
Pomona kindly reaches out to pat her shoulder. "Don't worry, she's here as some sort of Ministry liason, according to Minerva."  
  
"That's a relief."  
  
The other professor takes the sarcasm at face value. "Glad I could clear that up for you." She leans in conspiratorially, "Between you and me, I think most of the students prefer your teaching style over Snape's."  
  
_That's not saying much considering he often brings first and second years to tears!_  
  
Still, Trixie decides to take the comment in the spirit it was meant. "Thank you, Pomona."  
  
"You're quite welcome! We all need a little affirmation every now and again."  
  
Not for the first time, Trixie bemoans the fact that she'd been sorted into Slytherin. Pomona Sprout would have been an absolutely marvelous head of house.  
  
"Hem, hem."

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

"Hem, hem."

No matter how much she might wish otherwise, the painfully contrived sound could belong to none other than the toad herself. Slowly, and with considerable dread, Trixie turns around.

 _'Merlin, that is a unflattering shade of pink.'_  

"Excuse me," Umbridge says in an alarmingly girlish voice. "But I thought I might introduce myself." She smiles in a way that emphasizes her broad face. "I'm Dolores Umbridge, Hogwarts' new High Inquisitor."

Trixie's jaw slackens for a moment before she recovers. "Hello," her voice comes out with the same faux-geniality she usually reserves for political manuevering. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Beatrix Locke - the new Defense professor." 

"Yes, lovely to meet you." Umbridge turns away to repeat the song and dance with Pomona. 

Trixie fights the urge to cradle her face in her hands. She should have known better than to assume she'd have time. Unfortunately, she's not so far removed from her school years as she likes to think. She's been thinking like a student. She'd mistakenly assumed that, until the announcement was made and Umbridge's position cemented, she would be free from the woman's influence.

As the two older women finish their introductions, her mind races.  _'It's now or never. I need to make a decision.'_

Umbridge's attention is suddenly back on Trixie. "Miss Locke, I wanted to discuss your lesson plans for this year," she says, smiling like a shark. "As High Inquisitor, I'll be evaluating the quality of Hogwarts' instructors to ensure everything is up to Ministry standards."

"That's great," Trixie says facetiously. "I've often thought the core curriculum could do with a bit of revitalization." Damn it, apparently she's going with willfully obtuse. "We can meet twenty minutes before breakfast tomorrow, if that's all right with you?" The immediate displeasure on Umbridge's face is satisfying. Clearly, she'd meant to have that conversation  _now._

She doesn't argue the point, however. "Yes. Tomorrow morning then." It sounds like a threat. She saunters off down the table, ostensibly to meet the other professors.

Trixie sits back down and reaches for her tea cup.  _'Well, I've bought myself some time._ ' Though she'd been annoyed at herself a moment ago for playing dumb, she realizes now that her kneejerk reaction has actually left her more options open than she'd originally assumed. After all, someone without her foreknowledge probably _would_ take Umbridge at face value, at least at first.

Both the academic and the auror are still open to her. She doesn't have to show her true colours until the other woman does.

Maybe it's even better this way. Perhaps, in the moment, her Sight will kick in and she'll choose whichever path has the best outcome... Okay, probably not. But a girl can dream.

.

.

.

The rest of the day passes uneventully. Trixie, due to her heightened stress levels, doesn't manage to dowse the student's house, but she does manage to figure out which days Umbridge will be sitting in on her classes. She'd barely needed to concentrate before her pendant was swinging frenetically between Monday and Friday in her calendar.

It's less a testament to her skill and more a nod to the fact that Trixie is already fairly aware of the woman's plan. After all, it's easier to  _see_ things when the parameters are narrow. As she already knows what Umbridge's goal is, her inner eye has much less work to do than usual. The mysterious student, on the other hand... Well, she doesn't even know what sort of danger she's meant to save them from, let alone what her timeframe is.

"Is Miss Locke alright?"

 _What the-_ Trixie startles and looks up from her desk with a frown. At first, she doesn't see anyone, but then she casts her eyes downward...

"Sorry for startling you, miss." A house elf in a baggy tea-towel stands in front of her, with wide yellow-gold eyes fixed on the ground. "Nitty shouldn't have done that." The squeaky voice is painfully small. "Nitty is always messing up when she means to be helping."

"Don't say that!" At the little elf's wince, she softens her voice. "Really, it's fine." She tries to think of something reassuring to say, but draws a blank. "Anyway," she shoves everything back into her desk and stands up. "Was there something you needed from me?"

"Nitty was sent to let Miss Locke know that a staff meeting has been scheduled an hour before breakfast tomorrow morning."

Trixie grins at the news. _'Thank you, Dumbledore!'_ She wouldn't put it past the man to have done this on purpose. Even if he hadn't, she's damn well going to take advantage of the opportunity. She's sure she can think of a few concerns to bring up between now and tomorrow morning. If she's careful about it, she can probably waste enough time to cancel, or at the very least cut into her meeting with Umbridge.

Belatedly, she remembers the distraught house elf in front of her, waiting to be dismissed. "Thank you, Nitty." Before the elf can turn to leave, she speaks up again, "You know, come to think of it, I _am_ feeling a bit peckish. Would you mind bringing me some fruit from the kitchens? Just when you get the chance."

Nitty's large ears perk up. "Of course, Miss Locke." She disappears with a near-silent 'pop'. 

It's not the most moral way to improve an elf's mood, but it is one of the most certain. Trixie isn't sure if it's conditioning, natural instinct, or a combination of the two, but house elves seem to thrive on helping others. So much so that, after the first few times she'd had to question them as an auror, she'd adopted the habit of assigning small, easy-to-accomplish tasks before asking any questions.

And, well, it doesn't hurt that she really  _is_ hungry. She'd hardly eaten at breakfast, and she'd skipped lunch in favor of rearranging her theoretical lessons to coincide with Umbridge's visits.

.

.

.

Dinner that night is... interesting.

In an effort to avoid Umbridge, Trixie arrives at the last possible moment. She takes her seat beside Pomona just in time for Dumbledore to stand. The hall goes silent. "Students, before we begin our meal, I have an announcement to make." He gestures to Umbridge. "You may have noticed our newest member of staff. May I introduce our High Inquisitor, Dolores Umbridge." There were scattered whispers at this. "As High Inquisitor, Madam Umbridge will be making sure that we here at Hogwarts are meeting the Ministry's new standards of education." Trixie has to hand it to the man, he could be been talking about the weather for all the emotion in his voice. He sounds perfectly polite. "I ask that you treat her with the same respect as you would any other member of staff. Now, I won't keep you from your meals any-"

"Hem, hem." The headmaster pauses, clearly disconcerted. He looks around for the source, eyes only coming to rest on Umbridge when the woman repeats the stupid sound. Bemused, he sits back down and stares attentively at the woman as she stands and starts her speech.

It's as awful as Trixie feared it would be. Merlin's beard. She has to fight the urge to get up and leave. The vicarious embarrassment is all but unbearable, and she doesn't even like the woman!

A quick look up and down the staff table proves she isn't the only one feeling uncomfortable. McGonagall's lips are tightened, Pomona's brow is furrowed, and Flitwick's eyebrows are practically in his hair. Even Sinistra, who has all the makings of an incredibly skilled occlumens, looks as though she's smelled something foul. And well, if that's not a sign of the end of the world... 

Shaking her head a little, Trixie only barely pays attention to the rest of the very dry, very censored speech. Instead, she looks out at the students. About half are sitting there with their eyes glazed over, while the other half have stopped paying attention. They hardly bother to keep their voices down, utterly uninterested in Umbridge's bullshit. Only a spare few look concerned, her youngest brother and Hermione Granger chief among them.

"-thank you." 

Well, on the bright side, it seems as though she'll no longer be on the receiving end of Snape's glares. If the look on his face is any indication, he's found a target much worthier of his vitriol.


End file.
